|Butter wouldnt melt ...|
The day had already had a slightly hectic quality thanks to an early run to the station with the General, and breakfast for the B&Bs, and Princess Bunchy doing a Sleeping Beauty impression beyond the point of amusement and into the zone where parental blood pressure is elevated to a level considered a risk to health.
|Pigs on the run|
And time was running on apace to the extent that I could not delay my departure for work if I wanted to arrive at the office at a time which would still be within the bounds of decency, and indicative of a certain willingness, if not quite enthusiasm, for work.
So I had to dismiss anxious thoughts about the impermeability of the hedge between the field and the road, and the adventurousness of pigkind . . . [How could four sweet little scraps like this, so meek and mild and shy, turn into the rumbustious quartet we have today, in the space of six short weeks?]
All I could do was foam at the mouth enough to force a promise from the Head Chef that he would abandon his domestic duties and buy a new battery for the electric fence and turn the dial high enough to provide a deterrent to our resident escape artists.
It was actually a relief to get to work. I think the lesson here is that if you are not enamoured of your employment, and dread Monday mornings, just ensure that you maintain a high enough level of domestic disarray that your place of work seems a place of peace and orderliness in comparison. I am feeling waves of gratitude, just like Soulemama, at the thought.